No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Army Doctor, Afghanistan

A very perturbed army doctor burst into 221b Baker Street at 9 PM, summoned by a message from his sociopath of a friend. "This had better be good, Sherlock," John warned. He was annoyed at being called back on a very unpleasant winter evening when he could be home with Mary, warm and comfortable.

Sherlock looked up in surprise, his eyes large and innocent as he sat peacefully. The detective threw a glance behind him in the direction of the couch, on which Mrs. Hudson sat worriedly beside Celeste, who stared blankly into the air.

John's features softened, and he walked towards her.

"Hey," he said, causing Mrs. Hudson to turn, unblocking his view to her face. He paused a minute then rushed forward and knelt beside her. He looked up into her colorless eyes, asking to help her. She nodded ever so slightly, and John took Mrs. Hudson's place next to her and gently brushed away the hair that hung over her temple. He whistled slowly as he saw the long gash and the bruises that danced up her arms and splattered across her face. "Sherlock..." he called back hesitantly.

Sherlock got up out of the chair he was sitting in and stood behind John. "Yes?"

"Go get the kit in my old room, would you? I left it under the bed."

With a surprised look Sherlock complied, returning moments later with a small medical kit, placing it in John's outstretched arms. "Thank you," he said with a smile, then paused as he took a better look at Sherlock. "Looks like you both got into a bit of a scrape." He sighed sorrowfully. "Come here and sit down," he commanded as he began to dab Celestia's gash with a bit of antiseptic. He pursed his lips in thought a moment and lightly traced the wound with two fingers.

"I think I may need to put a few stitches in this, is that alright?"

She smiled up at him, her eyes coming back into focus. "Yes, of course, thank you ever so much, John," she replied before her eyes regained their former cloudy look.

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly as he rummaged around in the box to find what he needed. "Oh, it's no problem. Someone has to clean up the messes Sherlock gets himself, and whoever has the misfortune of being with him, into." There was a hint of disapproval in his statement and Celeste could tell that he was still coming to terms with the whole situation.

Sherlock recounted the events of the evening as John worked with careful precision, his fingers fast and efficient. Celeste listened carefully to Sherlock's deep voice as she held her head at an angle so John could "patch it up" as he called it. She could barely feel the prick of the needle against her skin, her temple numb thanks to John.

He leaned back when he had completed his work and returned the supplies to the box quietly, shaking his head in disbelief as Sherlock finished his tale. "Here's something for the pain," he explained as he tossed a bottle to Celestia who gratefully accepted the medicine before passing it off to Sherlock.

He settled back into the couch and put his hand to his face, thinking a moment. "So somehow this person has access to your personal belongings, information, and has the nerve to break into your hotel room," John summarized bluntly.

"Or he has people that work for him that do," Sherlock suggested.

"Whoever they are, you need to be more careful! She's hardly been here a day and she's already gotten hurt!" John threw a look in Sherlock's direction.

"No, it's fine, John, please." Celestia looked up at him. She had a sincerity in her tone and that same authority that had caused Sherlock to view her with respect, something that he hardly did.

"It was my decision and given the chance I would repeat it. Our efforts were not fruitless, and to be honest I was rather enjoying myself in a way, before a wall of barrels came crashing down on me that is." She pulled out the envelope and flipped it over in her hands a few times before handing it to John.